not gonna watch you wanna burn yourself out baby
by tamzinrose
Summary: AUish of S4E2 because someone should have done something
1. I may be romantic and I may risk my life

They walk out holding hands, ready to dance wildly, a blaze of glory. Emily feels the moment when Cook sees Effy with Freddie, kissing, reunited in every sense. His whole body tenses and he sucks in a breath, sharply, like he's just plunged into the too cold water of their lake.

She tightens her grip on his hand. It's simultaneously not enough and too much. She's an anchor, a tether, the safety on a rifle. She's the locked door, all that stands between Cook and chaos. If she lets go, he'll go off like a firework. She can feel it. He's coiled, ready to erupt.

Emily is scared. It's responsibility, heavy on her shoulders. His hand in hers, that's all this is, or all it was. "Cook." She says. He can't hear her, over the noise of the people and the party, or the roaring of blood pounding in his head, adrenaline.

Her arm's bent at the elbow. She's turned her head back to watch him, but her body's facing away, because she came out to dance and she wasn't expecting the situation that she's found herself in instead. She can't make herself move; frightened the movement of her turning round will be all it takes to upset the balance, to lose Cook.

In her head, she's seeing the locked door, the bolts and padlocks, the metal bars. In her head, there's a prison cell and she's all that's keeping Cook out of it. Everyone else is too fucking useless; too drunk, too scared, too selfish. She's scared too. She needs some fucking help with this. They're supposed to be his friends.

"Cook." She says again. She's shaking, trembling. She thinks her teeth might start to chatter. Time's gone screwy, fluid; it feels like forever and no time at all, a freeze frame moment in a movie, where everything hangs in the balance and anything can change.

She doesn't know what'll happen and barely thinks about it, but she decides she's got to do something. So she uses their clasped hands to spin herself into Cook, like a dance move, like they were supposed to be doing right now. Her body is tucked up against his, the hand she's trapped across her waist, like an embrace. She wants him to notice.

He's breathing heavy, hard and fast. He hasn't looked away from them, Effy and Freddie. Maybe he can't. His focus is terrifying. He's a predator.

Emily watched a documentary once, late at night, about this guy who had a wife and a boyfriend and kept big cats and put on shows with them, until the white tiger killed them both. Naomi laughed at her when she called her up in tears about it.

Cook's the white tiger, in her mind. She's the wire of the cage. Accidents happen and people get hurt, killed. She can't have this on her conscience.

With her spare hand, the one that isn't white knuckled and hurting from the way she's holding Cook's, she reaches up to put her hand firmly on his chest, then grabs a handful of his shirt, pulling. "Look at me!" She shouts. "Cook! Look at me!"

He blinks, finally. She only sees it because she's watching him so closely, desperate.

She moves her hand to his face, his jaw, his cheek and pushes until he's facing her. She leans up, on tiptoe, her hand slipped down to his shoulder for balance, and kisses him. She isn't timid. She's stopped being scared. This is a passion she can understand, help, control. Sex makes sense. Sex will save them.

Cook's eyes go wide, but he's kissing back. It's messy, passionate, frantic. Emily guides him backwards out of the room without breaking the kiss, without losing contact. She's panting and gasping in his mouth and she doesn't relent until they're in the bathroom and she's reaching back to shut the door behind them.

She slumps back against the door, her eyes sliding closed. She can't catch her breath.

"Emily...?" Cook sounds lost, like a little boy, waking up slowly from a vivid dream. He sounds close.

They're still holding hands. She opens her eyes, stares, fascinated.

"Emily." Cook tries again. "What...?"

"You're bleeding." Her voice is hoarse. "Your hand."

He's wearing a look of confused concern. He glances at his free hand, though he knows that's not what she means. He can't get to his other hand. Emily won't let go.

"Em." He starts. "It's all right, kid. It's okay now. You can let go." He's coaxing but she can't, she can't make herself. Her hand hurts. Her whole arm is starting to hurt, the tension of her grip travelling up to her shoulder and her neck and her head and her vision swims.

And she's crying, gulping, hitching, heaving sobs.

Cook's holding her and shushing her, speaking soothingly in soft tones she didn't know he was capable of. She cries into his chest, buries her face in his shirt, until she can breathe without sobbing. He lets her pull away, sniffling, though she can't get much distance because their hands are still linked.

"I'm sorry." Cook tells her. "You didn't need to do that."

"You w-"

"You shouldn't have had to do that." He interrupts. "I'm sorry I scared you. I love you Emily." He's using his other hand to stroke across her knuckles, which they can both see are white from the tension.

"No one else was doing anything." She mumbles, wiping futilely at the makeup smeared underneath her eyes.

He laughs. "Because they're not idiots. They didn't wanna get hurt. Everyone knows what I'm like." He's gently prying their hands apart, slowly, and leading her over to the sink. He turns both taps on and checks the temperature before he moves their hands under the spray. It stings, even though he's being careful, and Emily hisses a pained breath between her teeth.

"No. You're not... That's not all there is to you Cook. That's not who you have to be."

He watches the blood wash off. It's on both their hands. There are little cuts from each other's nails, half moons in their palms. "I'll walk you home."

Emily leans in to kiss him again. It's chaste, tender, affectionate. He looks surprised.

It was just another moment at just another party, in another room filled with people full of alcohol and drugs. It was just another moment when things turned nasty and people got out of the way or got hurt. But it felt like something else, something more.


	2. And now to dress the wounds

Later, when her head's reeling and her eyes are streaming and her heart's breaking, she can't think beyond getting away, from the rooftop, from Naomi – and her name is another stab to the heart. It _hurts_.

She runs, blindly, hurtling down the stairs and out of the building. Her pulse is pounding in her ears but she can hardly hear it over the screaming of her thoughts. _Naomi. Cheated. Ruined it. **Why?**_

She ends up at Cook's, banging on the door like there's a fire. He's shirtless and barefoot, standing in the doorway and staring at her with concern. "Em? What's the matter sweetheart?"

She falls into his arms, presses herself against his chest, weeping and sobbing and choking on her tears.

"Come on, kid. Come inside, have a drink or three and tell your Uncle Cookie all about it."

She shakes her head quickly, desperately. She doesn't want to talk about it. She can't. Cook of all people should understand that. She starts to pull away, to keep running, because if she just keeps going, then maybe she can outrun this and maybe it won't hit and it won't hurt and she'll be okay, she _will_ if she can just-

But Cook reaches out and catches her hand. She struggles and mumbles _No, Cook, let me go_. She starts half hearted but she gets frantic when she realises that he won't let go. Because it's not just about holding hands. He won't let her go and if he doesn't let her go then she can't just-

It's about keeping her safe. He cares. He _cares_.

Cook cares about her, and Naomi doesn't. Naomi doesn't care about her. Naomi doesn't love her. She's tried, she's tried _so_ hard. She was brave. She was so fucking brave and she tried so fucking hard and she's here, hurt and crying, because Naomi fucking Campbell, who hates injustice and fights for what she believes, wasn't brave enough or was too scared or just didn't love her, or at least didn't love her _enough_. Shit, what if it was all a lie? What if Naomi just felt _sorry_ for her, or she felt pressured into it, or Emily smothered her or-

"She cheated." She chokes out. "With...with Sophia."

"The dead girl?"

She nods, slowly, pitiful.

Cook sighs, shakes his head in disbelief and sympathy. "'m sorry Ems. Naomi's a twat, right? Come on. I've got some pills, some spliff, some vodka. You'll feel better in no time."

In no time, Emily feels...hazy. They took some pills with the vodka and Cook's smoking a joint that he holds to Emily's lips every now and then, because her arms feel too heavy and she's uncoordinated from the alcohol. She stopped crying a while ago, but her eyes are red and sore. She kept rubbing at them, until the effort of movement was beyond her. She's sprawled on the bed. She's vaguely worried about cum stains. Mostly she's not thinking about anything. Mostly Cook was right and his methods have worked.

In the morning, it'll all come back and it'll be worse, because she'll be tired and hung over and she'll have to actually see Naomi, at school and with their friends. She'll have to deal with this. They'll have to talk. She doesn't know what's left to say. Naomi lied and cheated and lied some more.

"Broke m' heart." She mumbles, slurring.

"Nah. Can't let it get to you. They're just...girls. Fucking girls. Fuck Naomi!"

"I did."

Cook laughs. "Glad one of us did." He takes a drag on the cigarette, leans over to blow smoke in her face and overbalances, falling to land next to her on the bed. She giggles and he pretends to be offended then pulls a face when she cuddles up next to him.

His chest's bare under her cheek, though she doesn't remember him taking his shirt off. His breathing is slow and steady, and he's warm, and she's drunk. The combination's enough to have her drifting off to sleep.

"What's it like?" Cook asks suddenly, startling her awake. She thinks about sitting up so she can see him, but he has his arm around her waist and she's too comfortable to bother.

"What?"

"Sex with...you know, when..." Then he sighs. "Ah, fuck. Never mind. Go to sleep Ems."

Puzzling over this keeps her awake a little longer. What did he want to ask her, before he got too awkward and embarrassed? That had been embarrassment, she's fairly sure, but she didn't think _anything_ embarrassed Cook. He's Cook. He's hardly shy. But surely even _he's_ not crass enough to ask outright for details of their sex life? She wants to remember this in the morning. She wants to ask him what he means, what's so important that he's scared to say it.

She falls asleep to the sound of his snoring. She's so glad she's not alone that she thinks it's endearing.


End file.
